


An Old Fool's Folly

by The_Plaid_Slytherin



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Book 6: Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, Community: hoggywartyxmas, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-23
Updated: 2011-12-23
Packaged: 2018-04-16 23:46:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4644546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Plaid_Slytherin/pseuds/The_Plaid_Slytherin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When he returns to teaching, Horace tries to feel out whether or not Albus is interested in resurrecting their former relationship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Old Fool's Folly

**Author's Note:**

> Written for purplefluffycat for hoggywartyxmas 2011.

"You are a fool," Horace said to himself in the mirror. His reflection blinked back indignantly. The mirror, being of Muggle fashion, remained silent. "You are a fool," he repeated, "and a gullible one at that." Caving to him after that display—the Potter boy, his hand— Horace shuddered at the memory. He had been reminded in one terrible instant just how old Albus was.   
  
Of course, Albus had always been older than Horace, but Horace had only been fully conscious of it for the period encompassing roughly ten years from Horace's sixth year, when Albus had first become his teacher, to the moment at age twenty-four when Horace had started, suddenly, like flipping on a Muggle light, to feel like an adult.  
  
Of course, the strong dose of Felix Felicis had probably helped somewhat.  
  
Horace frowned and set to brushing his teeth. He didn't know why that blasted Sorting Hat hadn't put Albus in Slytherin. It would have been the perfect place for him.   
  
Now, where had he put those Potions materials? Was Snape using the Borage book?  
  
He supposed bed would have to wait. At his age, he found he needed increasingly less sleep, as it was.  
  
Horace's trunk was downstairs. The book was in there, as well as all of his old lesson plans. He pulled them out and flipped through them.  
  
Right there, in the seventh-year curriculum—an ointment to ease Dark burns.  
  
Horace lowered the parchment. Could he go half an hour without thinking of Albus? It had been years since he'd last seen him and he'd just started to think he was able to finally be independent of him.  
  
But, no, he was still as beholden to Albus as he'd ever been.  
  
Sighing, Horace opened the book to the particular potion that had caught his eye. It was an ointment, one that Albus could surely use. He hadn't told Horace what had caused the injury to his hand, but any fool, including Horace, could see it was Dark.  
  
Horace had a strong suspicion, which he didn't voice, not even to himself, what it was.  
  
Brewing had always calmed him, ever since he was a child and had realized that potions was his calling in life, right alongside helping people out.  
  
Helping people out the way Horace did was a lot like potions, actually. He could look at someone and know exactly where they were supposed to go to make the world run a bit smoother, just as he knew the exact amount and order for each ingredient he used in brewing.   
  
Horace liked an orderly life, a predictable one. There was no shame in that, in safety. Otherwise was for Gryffindors—like Albus, damn him. Because despite his Slytherin qualities, he was the very epitome of a Gryffindor.   
  
"Right, then," Horace said briskly, though he was not in the habit of talking to himself. "Let's get on with it."  
  
Albus's wound looked severe—he would need an awful lot of ointment.  
  


**

  
  
By the beginning of the term, Horace had brewed several crocks of the stuff, but had sent none of them. Of course, he couldn't have—he didn't have an owl—but he also didn't want to let Albus know what he was doing.  
  
It wasn't that he didn't want to do his friend a kindness—Horace quite liked giving (and receiving) favors.  
  
No, it was that somehow, by giving Albus the ointment, he would have to acknowledge what had been done to him, which would include acknowledging, however obliquely, that it was Horace's fault.  
  
Because Horace knew why Albus had needed to touch a Dark object, knew, more or less, exactly what sort of Dark object he had been touching.  
  
He didn't dare utter the word, even in his own mind. Instead, he cursed himself at his inability to perform a proper Memory Charm. He contemplated trying again, but didn't dare. Better just to not think about it.  
  
He cast another Freezing Charm on the finished ointment and set it aside with the others. Somehow, he would figure out what to do with it.  
  


**

  
  
It had been almost a century since he was a Hogwarts student, but he still felt eleven years old when he stood before the door to the Headmaster's office, realizing he had not been told the password.  
  
Horace had left the Great Hall early, hoping to discreetly return to his quarters, get the ointment and then leave it for Albus before he returned from the Welcoming Feast. His plan, however, had proved to be unfruitful.  
  
"Ice mice," said a voice behind him.  
  
Horace looked up. Albus was smiling serenely at him.  
  
"Hello, Horace. It's so good to see you back at school. I have always felt you retired too early."  
  
"Yes, well." Horace shifted the crock from hand to hand. "My health, you know. Rheumatism and so on."  
  
"I see." Albus's eyes twinkled. Horace looked away, trying to ignore the warmth he was feeling in his middle. "I must confess I've been lucky in that regard. At least…" He shifted his hand just then—purely calculated, Horace decided. Slytherin!  
  
"I'm sorry to see your hand still isn't looking better." Horace held the crock of ointment up as though it had just happened to fall into his hands and he didn't know quite what it was. "I have this, if it would be of any use to you."  
  
Albus's face lit up. "Why, Horace, thank you." He took it and opening it, giving the contents a hearty sniff. "Is that distilled lavender I detect?"  
  
Horace sniffed indignantly. "Of course. You can't have a proper burn ointment without it. And Dark magic burns don't stop burning, so it's got to be—" Horace presently realized what he'd said "—it's got to be… slow-release. Oh, Albus, I must be going. Have you any idea what time it is?"  
  
"Horace," Albus said. This stopped him dead in his tracks.   
  
When had he said his name like that? It had to have been when he was twenty-four, a first-year teacher. That had been when they'd started the more intimate side of their friendship. Horace could remember being worried that Albus wouldn't see him as anything but a former student, off-limits, but no, he'd treated him like a colleague from the start, even when Horace felt his youth keenly when compared with the rest of the staff, all of whom had been his teachers.  
  
Horace turned back to look at Albus, who looked quite unexpectedly vulnerable, but in a second, it was gone.  
  
"I'd like to have some tea before retiring," Albus said smoothly. "Or perhaps, as I reflect, a bit of something stronger. Would you join me, Horace? It's been so long… I thought we might catch up."  
  
Horace had all manner of excuses prepared—the long train journey, his rheumatism, he was tired, planning for classes, checking out the state of the dungeons, meeting with—someone, anyone else. But all of them flew right out of his head.  
  
"Of course, Albus," he said. "I'd be delighted."  
  


**

  
  
Tea proved to be a bit of something stronger, which Horace didn't object to in the slightest. It also took the edge off his nervousness a bit, and he noticed Albus's hand less and less. The conversation was pleasant and (though it might have been the fault of the something stronger) Horace soon began to feel comfortable again in Albus's presence, like he had before, so many years ago.  
  
It was quite late when Horace left and part of him wanted to broach a certain topic, one that hadn't been discussed for quite a long time.   
  
He had been waiting for Albus to bring it up—he always did that, as much as he hated it. He knew he should be more assertive, but he just _couldn't_ say anything. What if Albus was no longer interested in a relationship of that nature?   
  


**

  
  
This worry was enough to keep Horace away from Albus for the next few weeks. However, his nerves were soon at war with the part of him that keenly felt Albus's absence. He wondered where this part had been for the past fifteen years, but perhaps it was just the proximity—Albus was there, just a few floors away and Horace couldn't go to him.  
  
He chanced glances at him at the staff table, but usually found himself engaging in conversation with someone else. Horace was intrigued by the possibility of getting to know the staff members who had been hired since his first retirement and this provided a small distraction during mealtimes.   
  
There was also the (not uncommon) occurrence of Albus's being absent from the Great Hall. During these meals, Horace became preoccupied with worry, so much so that he hardly ate more than half a plateful. These were the days he most considered going to see Albus, but usually a subtle probing question directed at Severus or Minerva assured him all was well.  
  
A few days before Halloween, Horace had had enough of this cycle of distraction and decided to make some more ointment.  
  


**

  
  
He delivered the ointment after the Halloween feast, hoping that having a full stomach would provide him with something resembling courage.  
  
Albus greeted him warmly, though if Horace didn't know better, he'd say he looked a tad preoccupied himself. When he entered, Albus quickly moved his Pensieve off his desk. Horace hesitated, wondering if Albus was engaged in something very private, but if Albus didn't want him there, he did nothing to show it.  
  
"Ah, Horace, I was just thinking about you." Albus's smile once again sent a strong feeling of contentment through him. That was how it had always been. "Have you brought me some more of your wonderful ointment?"  
  
"Oh, er, yes." Horace looked down at the crock in his hands. He'd almost forgotten he was holding it. "I have. Here it is." He placed it gingerly on Albus's desk, suddenly afraid he would drop it. "I trust you've found the first batch useful?"  
  
"Oh, yes." Albus's eyes twinkled and his good hand touched his burned one ever so slightly. "I even found it made an effective pimple remover—quite accidentally of course. Did you know that?"  
  
"No," Horace said. "I didn't. I suppose that must be the rookweed in combination with the, er—" Oh, how he hated the way he forgot himself in front of Albus "—the willow bark scrapings."  
  
"Ah, yes." Albus sounded pleased at having reached the solution to this puzzle. "That must be it. Will you sit down, Horace? It seems like we haven't seen each other in so long."  
  
Horace had been preparing to leave, so he almost twisted round in his attempt to sit in the chair across from Albus's desk.   
  
"Shall we have a drink?"  
  
"I'd love one," Horace heard himself say.  
  
Albus waved his wand and a bottle and two glasses floated over from the cabinet in the corner. "How does it feel to be back teaching again?"  
  
"Oh, I think I'm picking it back up rather quickly," Horace said. "I must say, I'd forgotten how much I love being around young people."  
  
"Yes." Albus inclined his head. "I know exactly what you mean. I don't imagine I would have lived as long as I had if it weren't for the students to keep me young." There was a brief flash of something in his eyes just then and Horace suddenly felt a chill.  
  
"Albus," he murmured.  
  
The moment was gone, though, as quickly as it had come. "I'm glad you've been able to pick up where you left off," he said. "I can imagine the transition might be difficult at first, but you seem to be handling it capably."  
  
Horace twitched his moustache, realizing the irony that something else that he had left off had _not_ been picked up.  
  
"No problems?" Albus continued. "Any students giving you trouble?"  
  
"Oh, no, for the most part, the students are a delight. The Potter boy, and of course, Miss Granger!" Horace could feel his nerves melting away as he brought up his favorites. Albus could understand this; they shared that love of teaching, imparting their knowledge to the younger generation.   
  
The conversation drifted gradually from their current students to ones they'd taught in the past and Albus became slightly more engaged when they turned to students they'd had before he became Headmaster.  
  
Before Horace realized, they were nearing dangerously close to—  
  
"Oh," he said suddenly.  
  
Albus looked at him curiously.  
  
They had been discussing Martin Redwood, a Ravenclaw student in the same year who had gone on to a very prominent post in the Ministry, thanks to Horace's recommendation.   
  
"Nothing, Albus, nothing." Horace cleared his throat and set his glass down. "Perhaps I've imbibed a bit too much this evening."  
  
Albus didn't say anything, but the look in his eyes contained a touch of skepticism. "Don't let me keep you up, Horace. You have to teach tomorrow."   
  
"Yes, well…" Horace paused. Albus looked almost… disappointed at the idea that he might retire for the evening. "Perhaps a bit longer. Though it would probably be best if I lay off the Old Ogden's."  
  
Albus immediately brightened. "Cocoa, then?"  
  
Horace felt himself smile. "Cocoa would be delightful."  
  
They never did continue that conversation about students they'd had in the '40s. Albus had to know why Horace had cut them off so suddenly, but he obviously wasn't going to pursue the matter any further.  
  
Oddly, the rush of guilt Horace usually felt when thinking about this matter didn't come. Perhaps it was the firewhiskey; perhaps it was his attempt to modify his own memory (it hadn't quite worked but it did make this particular thing somewhat slippery and difficult to think about).   
  
Finally, two cups of cocoa and a small plate of cakes later, at a quarter past twelve, Horace did finally excuse himself. Albus stood as he did and walked with him to the door.   
  
He couldn't help noticing that Albus looked a little stiff, a little slow, though perhaps he was just tired—Horace certainly was.  
  
"This was a nice chat we had, my friend," Albus said. He placed his good hand on Horace's shoulder.   
  
It felt heavy and warm and raised the hairs on the back of Horace's neck.   
  
"Yes, indeed." Horace flicked his tongue over his lips. "We really must do this more often."  
  
Albus smiled. "Yes, of course, Horace. We will."  
  


**

  
  
These Thursday evening meetings soon became a regular and most-anticipated part of Horace's week. Their conversations continued to range over a wide variety of topics, never once venturing back to the one thing Horace would never let himself think about, but he was enough of a desperate fool that it didn't really matter—any nearness to Albus was enough to give him some comfort.  
  
It wasn't a Thursday, so perhaps Albus wasn't expecting him, but Horace decided to go see him on Christmas Eve anyway. He'd almost reached Albus's office when he realized he'd forgotten the mead he had been planning to give him. Debating going back for it, he decided against it. He could give it to Albus tomorrow (which would, of course, give him an extra chance to see him).   
  
Albus seemed happy to see Horace when he opened the door, which gave him hope.   
  
"Ah, Horace, I was just thinking about you. I was wondering if you would be interested in helping me tackle a tin of treacle fudge I've received from Madam Rosmerta?"  
  
Horace paused. Albus's welcome was so sudden it was surprising. He hadn't expected him to be so enthusiastic, especially with Horace dropping by unannounced.   
  
"Why of course," Horace said. "I do so like treacle fudge and it's been ages since I've had Rosmerta's."  
  
Albus beamed. "Shall we go on up to my rooms? I fear my office is somewhat drafty this time of year."   
  
Not waiting for a response, Albus led Horace through the door and up the winding staircase. Horace hadn't been up here in—well, fifteen years.   
  
He tried to tamp down his nerves and remind himself that this didn't necessarily mean what he hoped it might mean.   
  
"We are afforded more privacy here, anyway," Albus said, as they sat down on the couch. "I fear the portraits downstairs were rather looking forward to a free show, as it were. I feel almost sorry to disappoint them."   
  
Horace was so caught up in marveling at how little Albus's living space had changed (Horace loved redecorating, himself) that he didn't quite grasp Albus's meaning for a few moments.  
  
"Oh?" he said faintly, not sure whether to let himself hope that Albus was going where Horace thought he was going.   
  
"Unless you'd _like_ to let them see." Albus sounded mildly amused, as though he wouldn't be entirely opposed to this. "I do imagine it's boring to be a portrait."  
  
"Oh, no," Horace said. "I'd rather stay up here."  
  
"Oh, good." Albus smiled. "For a moment, I was afraid my meaning would be lost on you." He reached out to take Horace's hand in his good one. "I know it's been a while since we did anything like this, but I've so been enjoying our chats. I must confess I was worried you might have… moved on."  
  
"Oh, no, of course not—" Horace looked down at their joined hands.  
  
"Good." Albus reached up with his bad hand—Horace almost expected himself to flinch, but he didn't—and touched Horace's cheek.   
  
Then, he kissed him.   
  
Horace was still trying to process this for a moment. Was Albus really kissing him? He seemed to be.  
  
Horace decided that he had better kiss back.  
  
When they broke apart, Albus said, "Oh, Horace, I can't tell you how glad I am that even now, you… still feel this way."  
  
Horace felt like a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He reached out to caress Albus's cheek, all reservations gone. He knew, in the back of his mind, that the time he had left with Albus was limited, but until the time came that they were separated, they would make the most of it.  
  
"I ought to have told you earlier, Albus, I'm sorry."  
  
Albus pulled Horace into his arms. "Don't worry about that, Horace." He kissed him again. "This is all that matters."  
  
"You're right," Horace said, leaning against his chest. "You're always right."  
  
He supposed he could bring Albus the mead later. Right now, there were other matters to attend to.


End file.
